It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment I decided I wanted to play roller derby. It could have been growing up in the ’80s and seeing the over-the-top derby bouts on TV. It could have been after reading the graphic novel Roller Girl by Victoria Jamieson, or watching the movie Whip It directed by Drew Barrymore, starring Elliot Page. It could have been the time I went to a local bout and experienced the energy of the skaters, the welcoming community, and the excitement of the crowd.
It was likely an overlapping of all these things that made me think that roller derby—especially the derby names—was really, really cool. At some point I knew I wanted to be part of it and was simultaneously terrified to (a) make a fool of myself or (b) get hurt . . . but if I am being honest, I was much more afraid of the first.
Fast-forward to the spring of 2022, and a serendipitous post from Boston Roller Derby crossed my path advertising a new series of skills classes. At that moment in time, my professional energy was depleted and I desperately needed something outside of work to challenge me, so I signed up and secured all the gear I would need: derby skates, elbow pads, knee pads, wrist guards, a skate helmet, a mouth guard, and sparkly silver skate laces for good measure.
When I arrived at the first practice, I felt like a kid on the first day of school with new shoes and a new lunchbox but no idea where to enter the building, no one to talk to, and dreading where I would sit at lunch. A quick glance around confirmed I was indeed the oldest skills skater there. I made small talk with those around me, and when it was time, like a toddler eager to master the new skill of walking but jerkily halting and wavering, preparing to fall at any moment, I made my way out onto the track.
That night we learned to move forward, a simple stop where we dropped to our knees, and how to get back up. I fell. A lot. My clothes and my hair were soaking with sweat, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk the next day. I knew what skating was supposed to look like—I could see others all around me who matched the image in my mind—and I knew that what I looked like was very different.
I wondered how many of our young readers and writers feel this way when they pick up a book or a pencil. They’ve seen others read and write—and yet when they try to do these things on their own, their process and product may look and feel quite different.
With each passing week, our coaches layered on new skills: more difficult stops, transitions from forward to backward skating in midstride, and partner work while always reminding us to stay low, get low, be in LOW derby stance. I watched the modeling, and I knew what I was being asked to do, and yet, my execution was often lacking. I’d get one part down but not integrate the others. I’d feel confident with the guided practice and then fall flat (literally) when I tried to do it independently. Again, as I felt sweat run from under my helmet into my eyes and down the small of my back, the parallels between learning to read and write and learning to play derby kept leaping out at me.
During each session, there were times when all skaters—the beginners and the advanced skaters—warmed up together. I loved these times, because I was able to have a model of how my skating should look. There were also times when the beginners were clustered together to work on a new skill. Our coaches broke skills down into smaller steps, and we practiced . . . and we fell.
One night we were learning to jump over small cones. This terrified me—so my coach scaffolded me by saying, “Just do a small jump beside the cone until you are comfortable.” I did this many, many times, and when I was ready . . . I did it. I jumped over a cone! My coach was on the other side and yelled, “You just tried something hard, AND YOU DID IT!”
The way she broke things down for me into smaller steps and kept me close to the goal was a model of the work we do for our emergent readers and writers: We honor approximations, knowing that in time, they will make the jump to the desired skill. I was also learning that I needed both heterogeneous and homogeneous groups to grow—the larger group made me feel a part of the derby community and inspired me to keep training, and working with a group of similarly skilled skaters gave me a safe space to refine my foundational skills.
At the end of the skills series, a test allows you to progress to the next level of training that involves contact, or asks you to stay in skills, learning more of the basics until you are ready to try again. I desperately wanted to level up, so I set a personal goal, and I practiced. Like the kid who wants to read longer books and puts in the time to grow those burgeoning skills, I went to the outdoor roller hockey rink and set up cones. I skated the bike path. I went to the parking lot of the local high school and skated up and down and jumped over the painted parking lines. I was reminded that to grow and improve, I had to practice. I also needed a tangible goal and had to rely on the explicit feedback given to me by my coaches about what I needed to work on to improve—to jump, transition midstride, and do crossovers at full speed.
Each time they pulled me aside and modeled something tricky for me or explained what I was missing, I was reminded of how important it is for kids to know what they are working toward, to receive direct instruction and actionable feedback, and to be involved in and invested in their goal. I wouldn’t have kept pushing myself and put in all of that extra energy if I’d thought I was just going to indefinitely skate in circles at the rink, and I doubt that even the most earnest early reader wants to read decodable texts forever.
I’m happy to report that I passed that skills test, and the joy I felt when I received the news was like learning there’s a sequel to your favorite book and the author will be hand-delivering your copy. I also felt joy that I had tried something new and that although I wasn’t the best at it, I had worked at it and had grown.
How often do we ask kids to be brave, take risks, and try something that may be really, really hard? How often do we truly ask the same of ourselves—to really put ourselves out there and try something new where we might fail spectacularly? There is joy in taking risks, setting goals, and making even incremental amounts of progress. There is joy in learning.
